


He Never Cries

by Worthless_Pride (Melody_Of_The_River)



Category: Haikyuu!!
Genre: And theyre also married, Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Established Relationship, Fluff and Angst, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Married Couple, Mild Sexual Content, Oikawa and Iwaizumi are both professional volleyball players, Relationship Problems, Relationship Resolutions, Smut, married husbands
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-05
Updated: 2019-04-05
Packaged: 2020-01-05 09:52:45
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,087
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18363638
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Melody_Of_The_River/pseuds/Worthless_Pride
Summary: It’s beenmonthssince the accident. Months of waiting on him in the hospital room, months of waiting for him to recover, months of nursing him back to health, and every time Iwaizumi thinks that this is it, this is when his husband will finally break down, Oikawa, he –He never cries.





	He Never Cries

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Laweeza09](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Laweeza09/gifts).



> Hello Haikyuu Fandom!  
> Just a brief background to this one-shot: Oikawa and Iwaizumi went to the same university, and got themselves a marriage certificate in Tokyo while they were in university. Their marriage certificate is official, but their relationship is not public at all. Only their close friends, family, coach, and team members know. They play for an unspecified team in Japan's V.Premier League.  
> My Haikyuu and Iwaoi tumblr is [@worthless-pride](https://worthless-pride.tumblr.com/). Check it out for more Iwaoi things! :)

_On the court, there is only ever one moment of sheer, absolute silence._

_A single moment – that seems to last a thousand moments – when the ball has already hit the wrong side of the court, and its deafening thud still hangs in the air like a vibrating string waiting to be muted. A single moment, when the whole gymnasium – the teams, the audience – stands still, not breathing, not moving. Just waiting. A single moment when it’s uncertain which way the scales will tip – victory or failure? – and you’re hoping, that by some divine miracle… it’s victory. But the man who last touched the ball, looks at his hand, then looks at the still-bouncing ball on the ground, and then looks up at the referee, eyes waiting for an upset, a red flag – anything. Anything that will deny what he fears the most. A single moment of suspended animation where he can still… hope._

_But then the whistle blows. And the screams start. And he knows._

_The team has lost._

_But he, the man who hit the ball last, is still looking at his hands: hot and red and trembling from the impact. His legs won’t move. And his mind is going through every single possibility that perhaps could have changed the outcome, that could have tipped the scales maybe. That could have given them a chance at victory._

_But he cannot turn back time. And the moment is already lost._

 

_The next thing that follows the silence, is the tears._

_Slow enough at first that they could be mistaken for sweat beads on the cheek. But then, when the reality really hits, the tears come too: without restraint, and heavy with grief. Snotty, disgusting tears. Loud, racking sobs. The violently trembling shoulder, and the quiet sniffling muffled by the edge of a sweaty shirt. They all cry – the libero, the blockers, the spikers, the setters. Because the tears need to be shed, and the grief needs to be felt._

_But the man who lost the match: the setter, the captain. Oikawa, he –_

_He never cries._

 

 

It’s been so many years, but Iwaizumi still remembers the silence of that intense final moment, in their last match of high school, like it was only yesterday. He supposes it’s only natural too, that a man whose entire life has been volleyball would find similarities between the sport and many of the most pivotal moments in his life.

Afterall, asking the man who has been your best friend since you were five years old, to go on a date with you, isn’t all that different from casting your ball in a jump serve and seeing if it lands on the other side. And of course, Oikawa had only laughed in his face, and then, before Iwaizumi could die of embarrassment, had promptly followed it up with, “ _Iwa-chan, I thought you would never ask”_ – a statement that made it hard for Iwaizumi to resist calling him “ _Shittykawa_ ” or any of the other colorful varieties of nicknames he had for the smirking bastard.

And afterall, getting asked by your boyfriend of only a few months to move in with him, is no different than him tossing you the riskiest of sets, and _daring_ you to be daunting enough to spike it home. And Iwaizumi, he – he would never dare disappoint. Tugging Oikawa close, claiming his lips with his own, tongues slipping in – wet, hungry – Iwaizumi had posed a challenge of his own:

 

_“Marry me, instead.”_

All his life, Iwaizumi has trusted Oikawa – on the court, off the court; as a captain, as a lover. This, this moment was the spiker asking the setter to trust him **_back_**. Oikawa had looked at him, dumbfounded, a look flashing across his eyes – one of uncertainty, one of fear – before ultimately softening into one of simple adoration. Because he knew that whether it was the game or their life – or the game of their life – Iwaizumi was the one man he could trust. Absolutely, and with all his heart.

 

Their life has been so completely overrun by volleyball, ever since they were five, and Oikawa’s mother used to drop him off at Iwaizumi’s house, and they’d watch matches until they were forced to go to bed, and even then, they’d keep whispering beneath the blankets about their favorite players and whatnot, vocabulary consisting solely of the word “ _sugoi_ ”, repeated over and over. So, it is only natural for Iwaizumi to still be thinking in volleyball metaphors, even at such a pivotal time as this. _Especially_ at such a pivotal time as this.

Because afterall, having the love of your life get into an accident, and not knowing whether the next time the doors to the operation theatre open would bring news of life or death… is not much different from that final moment of silence on the court. The silence that hangs. The silence that bleeds.

The silence that kills. 

 

 

 

It’s the silence that bugs Iwaizumi most on long trips like this one.

The drive from inner-city Tokyo to Sendai is a long, straight, uneventful road, that passes by some of the most boring landscapes in all of Japan. Empty fields, abandoned factories, high-rises in construction on the outskirts of Tokyo – all make for one annoyingly quiet trip.

Even more so, when your husband looks out the window the entire time, and barely speaks more than two words for the duration of the five-hour drive.

It’s been _months_ since the accident. Months of waiting on him in the hospital room, months of waiting for him to recover, months of nursing him back to health, and every time Iwaizumi thinks that this is it, this is when his husband will finally break down, Oikawa, he –

He never cries.

 

They’re going back to visit Oikawa’s parents for a week. Even though Iwaizumi knows he shouldn’t be taking a holiday so close to the Preliminaries, unless he wants to risk getting kicked off the team, but he’s going to do it for him anyway. For Oikawa. Because he needs it. And Iwaizumi _knows_ that he needs it. Volleyball career can go fuck itself; he’ll be damned if he lets his husband continue to feel sorry for himself like this, spending days locked up in the study, barely speaking more than a few necessary words to him, resisting Iwaizumi’s every effort to get him to talk. And honestly, Iwaizumi blames himself too. The V. Premier League matches are fast approaching, and his practices have been demanding and strenuous, and continuing long into the night. He’s had dinner with Oikawa maybe half a dozen times in the past couple of weeks. No wonder Oikawa’s not talking to him. But it’s alright. They’ll get through this. They always do. It’s the one singular, constant fact in their lives, and if Oikawa won’t believe in anything else, Iwaizumi hopes he believes in that at least.

“Iwa-chan.”

Oikawa’s voice breaks him out of his train of thought, and Iwaizumi looks at Oikawa from the corner of his eye. The man is still looking out the window, making every effort to avoid Iwaizumi’s questioning gaze. Iwaizumi sighs, and removes one hand from the steering wheel to softly tuck a stray hair on Oikawa’s head back behind his ear. He does not flinch away from his touch – which Iwaizumi takes as a good sign – but annoyingly so, he does not react to it either.

They will have to change that on this trip.

“Hmm?” Iwaizumi hums back in reply, fingers alternating between playing with Oikawa’s hair and lightly stroking his cheek.

“How far is Sendai, now?”

“Maybe… half an hour or so. Why?”

Oikawa hesitates. “I was thinking…”

“Yeah?” Iwaizumi glances at him, “What is it, Tooru?”

“Could we make a… detour to Seijoh?” Oikawa asks, “Before we go to my parents’ house?”

The fingers in his hair pause. “Why?”

“Oh, I was just… feeling a bit nostalgic, I suppose.”

“Will the school be open, though? It’s a Sunday. Not to mention, summer vacation.”

Oikawa sneaks a look at him, before promptly averting his gaze again “Well, the club activities usually continue way into the summer, right? They should have their building open for visitors. They used to, you know, back in our day…”

“Yeah, I guess you’re right. No harm in checking it out, either way. And we don’t have to be at your parents’ until six so, I suppose we can spare an hour or two.”

“Yeah,” Oikawa replies simply, letting the unwelcome silence settle back between them.

Iwaizumi clicks his tongue.

 _Shit,_ he curses internally.

They are sitting less than two feet apart, and yet, Iwaizumi feels as if there’s a massive iron wall between him and his husband. Anything he wants to say, just won’t pass through. Oikawa’s moods have always been unreadable, indecipherable, a landmine that can go off at the slightest of upsets. But he’s a soft man, all in all, and his resistance to coercion is almost nonexistent. When he’s mad, he wants terribly for Iwaizumi to notice he’s mad. He’ll make it laughably obvious, but won’t tell him why. It’s childish and dumb, but Iwaizumi loves it – loves how a press there, a touch here, can reduce him to an adorably scowling, blushing mess, mind already forgetting his outrageous grievances.  

But this, this is not a mood.

It’s been going on for months. Since that first look at Oikawa’s bruised and battered body, to now when it’s almost completely healed and healthy, Iwaizumi has known. Oikawa can try to hide it, but his self-loathing is slipping through the cracks as plain as day. With the way he’ll bunch up his fists when he accidentally puts too much stress on his right leg, or the way he’ll exhale sharply when he has to reach a high point, and start blinking faster lest the tears start falling – it’s painfully obvious to Iwaizumi that Oikawa is hurting. Painful to see him hide it, painful to see him resist help. And beyond frustrating when he just. Won’t. Fucking. _Cry_. As if it would make him less of a man in Iwaizumi’s eyes.

 _God_ , doesn’t he know? Doesn’t he know already? How devastatingly in love with him Iwaizumi is? Volleyball can go fuck itself; Iwaizumi fell in love with it because of _Oikawa_. Not the other way around. God, he’s so dumb. Iwaizumi would punch him if he didn’t love him so much…

He looks at his wrist watch – there’s still about twenty minutes or so to the city. Iwaizumi pushes his foot down a little harder on the accelerator, already getting impatient to get the silent drive over with. He passes the sign that says fifteen miles to Sendai Castle and continues down the straight lonesome road to Aoba Johsai High School.  

* * *

 

The school building, thankfully, is still open, and when they arrive, the same guards who used to shout at them eight years ago to get a move on, when Oikawa and him used to stumble in late, fifteen minutes after the school gates closing, now smile and let them through without another word. Iwaizumi can hear them whispering between each other:

_“Isn’t that Tooru Oikawa?”_

_“From the Volleyball League?”_

_“Yeah. He got into an accident recently, didn’t he –”_

Iwaizumi winces as their conversation predictably steers towards Oikawa’s accident. He hopes Oikawa didn’t hear them, but by the way he is trotting ahead of him, tortured silence hanging around his very person, Iwaizumi knows he’s heard their talk. Their sighs of sympathy, their _‘too-bad’_ s. Their pitying glances masked under a façade of kindness. Iwaizumi hates it. Loathes it. He doesn’t understand why Oikawa would ever want to come back to their school, of all places, but then again, he’s never understood the way Oikawa thinks. Does he think this would be good for him? What does he want to achieve? Oikawa’s mind is a puzzle Iwaizumi has not been able to decipher, even after four years of marriage, and a lifetime of friendship. But Oikawa always explains himself to him in the end. Even if it takes hours, days, weeks. Months. Iwaizumi trusts that this time will be no different. Iwaizumi trusts _him_.

The question is whether Oikawa trusts him back?

 

 

It never fails to surprise Iwaizumi how deep Oikawa’s presence runs in his life.

He walks down the school road, and all his mind can think of is fifteen-year-old Oikawa laughing and running ahead of him, trying to dodge the rain and make it to class before the register call. He walks down the corridor and all he can think of is Oikawa, trying to suppress a grin in the face of Sensei’s scolding, while Iwaizumi stands next to him, trying to look as sorry as possible. He peeks inside the classrooms, and he sees Oikawa passing him cute flowery notes, with “ _For Iwa-chan_ ” scribbled messily on it, hearts littering the entire page, and he wonders how it took them until they were twenty-two to finally confess. All the memories that come rushing back to him – bustling corridors, cluttered classrooms, obscure announcements on the loudspeaker in the mornings, flirty glances during rollcall, busy club meetings, going home together, sleeping on each other’s shoulders in the bus on the way back – in all of them, there’s Oikawa. Front and center.

And the memories – they just keep getting more intense, the further they venture into their old school-building. When they finally step into the volleyball court, it’s all he can think about. Oikawa, how he looks standing in front of Iwaizumi during a match, shirt drenched in sweat, back muscles pronounced from how heavy he’s breathing, forearms glistening, mouth panting – it is a sight that has gotten him distracted more times than Iwaizumi would like to admit. But Oikawa is just such a goddamn beautiful man, he can’t even complain.

It’s only when they step into the middle of the court, that Oikawa looks at him. Properly, face-to-face, and in the eyes. For maybe the first time in weeks.

“Iwa-chan.” His voice is as saccharine sweet as it ever was; if Iwaizumi closes his eyes, and just listens to Oikawa, no matter what kind of dumb shit comes out of his mouth, his voice alone can still make Iwaizumi think of chocolate and latte and nutmeg. _“Vanilla Cocaine,”_ Iwaizumi had once said, when Oikawa had asked him what his voice sounded like to him.

 _“You’re so fucking mean, I don’t know why I put up with you,”_ Oikawa had said, only snuggling closer as Iwaizumi laughed beside him.

_“You mean why **I** put up with **you**?”_

_“Shut up, Iwa.”_

He misses it so damn much. Their carefree back and forth, their jokes, their insults.

Iwaizumi just wants his husband back.

 

“Yeah. What is it, Tooru?” he replies.

“Can we…” Oikawa starts hesitantly, “do some sets together?”

Iwaizumi’s eyes widen.

“No.”

“Come on –”

“I said no.”

“Look, Iwa, I –”

“No, absolutely _not_. We are not playing volleyball.”

“Look, I’ll just throw some tosses, alright. I won’t even have to move my legs much. Just my arms.”

“Tooru, I don’t think –”

“Please?”

“Tooru…”

“Please,” Oikawa says, “Please, Iwa-chan,” his voice is almost breaking, “I need to play. Please let me play.”

Oikawa’s eyes have started to shine a bit, from the tears he’s blinking so fast to keep from falling. He looks desperate, like his body is itching for it. And how could it not? The man hasn’t even touched a volleyball in months, much less stand in the middle of a court. To Iwaizumi, denying him now, feels like denying a child his dream when it’s so close to his grasp. It feels cruel. And he loves Oikawa too much to deny that hungry, desperate look he has in his eyes.

“Okay,” Iwaizumi says.

“Okay?”

“Yeah. Just a few tosses.”

“Just a few,” Oikawa agrees.

“And you’ll have to promise me that you won’t move around too much.”

“I promise.”

“And you’ll tell me when you get tired.”

“I will.”

“Or if it hurts somewhere.”

“Iwa-chaaaan…”

“Fine, fine…” Iwaizumi agrees, turning his back to Oikawa to get the huge basket of volleyballs that they keep at the corner of the court.

“I love you!” Oikawa calls to him, and it’s the first time he’s heard it in months. Iwaizumi can’t help the blush he gets from hearing his husband say that.

“I love you too, you idiot,” Iwaizumi responds back, voice light, teasing. And he hears Oikawa let out a small chuckle at the insult, and _God_ , he’s missed this. Maybe coming to Seijoh wasn’t that bad of an idea after all.

He fetches a ball and runs to Oikawa, and Oikawa presses a soft kiss to Iwaizumi’s cheek when he hands the ball to him. They get into position, Oikawa near the net, ready to toss the ball, and Iwaizumi directly facing him. And when he hears that tell-tale breathy “Iwa-chan” – the sound that has been their signal for years – Iwaizumi runs.

He runs, and jumps at exactly the right moment – muscles trained from years of being with his one and only setter – and brings down his arm at exactly the right instant to strike the ball home.

It feels good, better than he has felt in months, when he hears the sound of the ball striking the hardwood of the court on the other side of the net. When he lands back on the ground, and looks at Oikawa, the man is smiling. Beaming, almost. A look he hasn’t seen on his face in ages.

“Another,” he says, and Iwaizumi can’t help but nod.

They hit a couple more tosses, and Oikawa mostly keeps his promise not to move much. At the fourth toss, Iwaizumi hears Oikawa grunt as he throws the ball to him, and when Iwaizumi lands – after another successful hit – he takes Oikawa’s face in his hands, judging for any damage.

“Are you alright?” he asks worriedly.

Oikawa rolls his eyes. “Yeah, yeah, I’m fine,” he says, “I’m not a doll, Hajime…”

“Yeah, but –” Iwaizumi starts, but his words die on his lips when Oikawa passes him an annoyed look.

“Another?” he asks instead, trying his best to appease his setter. It’s been so long since they’ve been so easy-going around each other, and Iwaizumi would do anything to keep from ruining it.  Iwaizumi has always thought that their love only got stronger through their trust and partnership on the court. Maybe that’s what was missing these past few months. Volleyball was what had brought them together and then kept them together – through middle school, through high school, through university. Through the few turbulences in their marriage. The way they play on the court is like a physical manifestation of how they are with each other: perfect trust. No matter what.

And it’s that look in Oikawa’s eyes, asking Iwaizumi to trust him, that is his undoing. Time, and time, and time again. Because he knows that as trustworthy of a setter Oikawa is, he’s fucking _shit_ at taking care of himself. He will hide his pain, keep going until the tears – not the ones in his body, but the ones in his spirit – get too damaged to be mended, even by Iwaizumi’s soft touch. By their tenth toss, he knows he should stop, but he’s a sucker for those chocolate brown eyes, and the way they shine in excitement – a look he hasn’t seen in too damn long. And playing volleyball hasn’t felt so good in ages. It feels good enough that he gets lost in it. Lost in the simple pleasure of playing with the love of his life. Lost enough, that he doesn’t notice when Oikawa _jumps_.

The scream he lets out breaks Iwaizumi’s fucking heart. Ball forgotten mid-air, Iwaizumi lands back on his feet and drops down to his knees, to Oikawa’s level, where he’s clutching his right thigh with both his hands and refusing to look up from the hardwood floor.

“Tooru, Tooru. Look at me, darling. Come on now, look up,” Iwaizumi tries to coax, hand trying to pull Oikawa’s chin up. There are droplets falling on the floor, dripping from his hair, dripping from his eyes. But when Oikawa looks up, he’s blinking fast again, like letting his husband see the tears fall is a disgrace to him, like it makes Iwaizumi love him less. _God_ , he’s so stupid, it makes Iwaizumi’s heart hurt.

“What happened, did you pull a muscle?” Iwaizumi asks him, mouth resisting the urge to go on a classic Iwa-chan “I-told-you-so-rant”. The time for that would come later. “Where does it hurt?” he asks him instead.

“M-my thigh,” Oikawa replies through gritted teeth, still not looking into Iwaizumi’s eyes.

“Do you think you can walk to the car, Tooru?”

“Yeah… what about the –” he gulps, “what about the balls?”

“Oh, I’m sure, someone from the school will fix it.”

“But –”

“ _Tooru.”_

At this, Oikawa looks up into his eyes with a glare, and Iwaizumi is just a little taken aback, from the sheer hurt in his eyes. But he’s not going to accept any arguments when it comes to Oikawa’s health. He takes Oikawa’s arm – even though the man is as begrudgingly petulant as always – and loops it around his shoulder, helping the man rise to his feet. Oikawa resists, of course, but Iwaizumi gives him one look that says “ _enough_ ” as sternly and clearly as he can possibly manage when it comes to Oikawa, which has Oikawa reluctantly submitting to him and accepting his help. You don’t stay married for four years without learning a trick or two. No matter what others may think, Iwaizumi has as much of a hold on Oikawa as Oikawa does on him.

They get to the car without further argument, and Iwaizumi helps him into the front seat. It’s almost five o’clock now, and though they still have time before they need to go to Oikawa’s parents’ house, Iwaizumi takes it upon himself to call them to cancel and drives to their hotel instead. Oikawa does not argue, nor does he give his characteristic huff of disapproval. Just looks outside the window, blinking rapidly, all the way to the hotel.

* * *

 

They check in quietly. It’s late in the afternoon, and some video game obsessed high schooler is in charge of the reception. She does not pass them a second glance before handing them their keys and telling them which floor it’s on. Iwaizumi is glad for this moment of anonymity; he doesn’t think he could’ve taken any fans right now.

“Oh, and the elevator is out of order,” she mutters in passing, eyes never once swaying from her handheld video game device. Oikawa curses under his breath as they make their way to the stairs. But before Oikawa even gets a moment to think the situation through, Iwaizumi is already bending down, snaking a hand around Oikawa’s legs, and one around his shoulders, to scoop the man up in his arms.

“W-wait, Iwa-chan, what about our bags?”

“I’ll come get them later.”

“Come on, Iwa, don’t –” Oikawa protests, but all to deaf ears.

“Don’t fucking kid me, I know you couldn’t make it up the stairs comfortably right now,” Iwaizumi grumbles, moving forward and climbing up the first step.

“I would have been _fine_ –” Oikawa starts but Iwaizumi stops him.

“I don’t _want_ you to be fine, don’t you get that by now, Shittykawa?” Iwaizumi snaps, voice coming in rougher – maybe because of the exertion of carrying a six-foot-tall man up the stairs, but mostly because of all the pent-up frustration he has at his husband. “I know what you’re doing. Do you think I can’t see past this brave fucking façade you’re trying so hard to put up? Do you think I’ve not known you for long enough to see when you’re being a danger to yourself?”

“I’m not – I’m fine, I’m –”

“Come on,” Iwaizumi stops moving for a second, “Come on, just fucking stop already.”

Oikawa opens his mouth. And closes it again. Then opens, and grumbles, “I’m not having this conversation in the middle of the fucking stairs.” He gives Iwaizumi an angry glare and then looks away again.

“Fine,” Iwaizumi growls, “Have it your way, dumbass.”

“Really creative with the insults there, huh, Iwa-chan?”

“Shut up, just –” Iwaizumi sighs, “Just shut up, Tooru.”

Iwaizumi thinks maybe Oikawa looks a bit apologetic at that, but Oikawa doesn’t look at him long enough to confirm his suspicion.

“We’re here, you can stop carrying me around, you brute,” Oikawa mutters when they finally reach their floor.

“No,” Iwaizumi replies, walking swiftly towards their hotel room door.

“Hey, c’mon, Iwa, let me down –”

“Stop. Struggling.” Iwaizumi says assertively, and his tone has Oikawa shrinking away from him a bit.

“How the fuck are you going to open the door, huh?”

“Watch me, darling.”

“Fuck you.”

Iwaizumi laughs, and the sound only deepens Oikawa’s scowl. He bends down, still holding Oikawa’s body firmly in his hands, and maneuvers a hand so that it can reach the key hole. After some fidgeting, he finally manages to get the door open and without even closing the door behind him, strides straight down the hallway to the bedroom, and gently deposits Oikawa on the king-sized bed. Oikawa makes a move to get up as soon as he is set down, but Iwaizumi already has a firm hand on his chest, pushing him back.

“I swear, Oikawa, if I come back with the luggage, and you’re more than a centimeter out of place, I will fucking divorce you.”

If it was any other moment, Oikawa may have made a snide comment, or even insulted Iwaizumi for his sentimentality, but right now, the way he is looking at him, nothing but passionate fiery in his eyes, and voice more domineering than he’s ever heard it before – Oikawa does not dare disobey him. He lies back, and the expression on Iwaizumi’s face softens. And with that, before Oikawa can even get another word in, Iwaizumi turns his back to him and is already running down the stairs to the ground floor.

 

 

He’s back in less than two minutes, two suitcases dragging along behind him. He sets one – Oikawa’s – outside the room, and brings the other one inside, closing the door behind him.

“Can I get up now?” Oikawa asks, testing the waters as cautiously as he can. Iwaizumi doesn’t answer except for a simple shake of his head, and Oikawa sighs and settles back on the pillows. While Iwaizumi is busy searching his bag – for what, Oikawa does not know – Oikawa decides to look around the room instead. Its big glass windows that cover half the expanse of the eastern wall and look onto one breathtaking view of Sendai in the light of sunset, fill the room with a yellow-orange glow, bright enough that they do not need to turn on a lamp, but dim enough that they can still maintain their illusion of privacy without having to close the blinds. It’s decorated as minimally as possible – an embroidered mat on each one of the bedside tables, and a small Matryoshka doll on Iwaizumi’s side. Odd thing to find in a hotel room. Oikawa wonders if some Russian visitor forgot it there. The bed sheets are pure white, and they smell clean – like bleach and fabric softener. Iwaizumi’s favorite smells.

 “Tooru.” His voice breaks Oikawa out of his train of thought.

“What?” he looks at Iwaizumi, who is now joining him in bed. He sits cross-legged, and takes Oikawa’s right leg and places it in his lap.  

“Tell me where it hurts,” he speaks softly, brushing his fingers up and down his clothed leg. He places a gentle hand on his right thigh, and pushes his legs slightly apart so that he can snake a hand around and press on the pressure-points on the inside of his thigh. “Tooru,” he says, voice insistent, commanding almost.

“Yeah, it’s…” Oikawa’s voice trails off. He’s distracting him, the bastard, and Iwaizumi knows this, if the slight hint of a smile that graces his lips is any indication. “Weren’t we having an argument just now, Iwa-chan?” Oikawa tries to derail Iwaizumi from his task but the man is persistent. He only hums in response and offers a quiet, “What argument…?” as his fingers continue their work. Oikawa tries to laugh but his breath hitches when Iwaizumi presses more firmly, and at that, Iwaizumi stops.

“Is it there?”

Oikawa nods in discomfort, because Iwaizumi’s fingers are trailing over the very bruises that he has tried so hard to ignore for months now. How foolish of him, really, to think that he could ever evade Hajime Iwaizumi’s knowing gaze? They’ve known each other too damn long for that.

Iwaizumi continues pressing, massaging in places, rubbing in others, and it starts to feel better after a while, but the friction from the denim of Oikawa’s jeans is still uncomfortable as hell and he cannot stop flinching when it rubs against his skin the wrong way, the muscle beneath protesting painfully against the harsh touch. Iwaizumi notices his discomfort and his hand is already working at the belt of his jeans, and gently tugging down the zip. But as soon as Oikawa realizes what is happening, he is quick to put a stop to it.

“Iwa-chan, what the –”

“Shh…” Iwaizumi tries to comfort him, bending down to press a kiss to his lips. But Oikawa moves his head at exactly the right moment, so that Iwaizumi’s lips land on his cheek instead.

“No, it’s not okay. I don’t want you to…” Oikawa huffs out in annoyance.

“Don’t want me to what?” Iwaizumi asks, lips trailing up and down his cheek, pressing kisses on his jaw, and at the corner of his lip. “Don’t want me to touch you?” he asks, hand descending lower, until his fingers brush against his crotch. “Don’t want me to make you feel better?”

“Iwa-chan, don’t… Don’t…” Oikawa’s hand catches hold of Iwaizumi’s, fingers gripping the wrist hard. “Just. Don’t,” he says.

“Why are you still hiding?” Iwaizumi coaxes him.

“I’m not hiding,” the man turns away and looks at the window.

“Then let me see you.”

“I don’t want you to see me.”

“ _Tooru_ ,” Iwaizumi whispers, his other hand going around to cup Oikawa’s cheek and bring him to meet his eyes again. He’s blinking fast again; he’s breathing faster too. “I’m your _husband_.”

Oikawa closes his eyes tightly, refusing to look at Iwaizumi’s face. A lone tear trickles down his cheek and Iwaizumi darts out his tongue to lick it away.

“Tooru, Tooru, Tooru…” he coaxes him, as softly as he can, brushing his lips against Oikawa’s as more tears continue to descend from tightly shut eyes. He unlocks his wrist from Oikawa’s grip, and continues the passage of his hands. He raises Oikawa’s hips just the slightest, enough to pull his jeans down his hips, over his knees, and down his ankles. He hooks a soft, prying finger on the waistband of his boxers – those goofy ones, with that star pattern he loves so much – and gently starts pulling them down his legs too. When he glances up, Oikawa’s eyes are still shut tight.

They haven’t had sex since Oikawa’s accident; they haven’t even done anything sexual since Oikawa’s accident. So as much as he hates it, Iwaizumi can’t help the soft gasp that escapes his mouth at seeing his husband’s naked lower half after so many months. His thighs, his knees, his legs, they’re all covered in red, angry blotches, purplish bruises, yellowing scars – the aftermath of an accident that Iwaizumi _wishes_ he could have traded places with Oikawa for. But he can’t. And instead he has to bear the grief of looking at the love of his life in pain, his body unwilling to serve him the way he wants it to, unwilling to play the sport that has been his life – their life – since they were five years old.

It’s a fucking tragedy.

But not a tragedy great enough for the Great King.

“Tooru,” Iwaizumi says, “Please look at me, love.”

Oikawa shakes his head, brown hair cascading on the pillow, and eyelashes still wet with tears.

“Tooru, please look at me,” Iwaizumi says again, his voice almost a whisper with how soft it is. He rearranges their bodies so that Iwaizumi is the one who’s sitting between Oikawa’s legs. Oikawa’s eyes shut tighter as he winces. “Shh…” Iwaizumi tries comforting him, placing a hand on his cheek and kissing him, as deeply and as sensually as he can. The kind of soft, lingering kisses that they reserve for after-fights, and lost matches. “We’re going to be alright, you know that, don’t you? You’re going to be fine, love. Your body is going to get better. And before you know it, you’ll be annoying me on the court again,” Iwaizumi tries to joke, but Oikawa’s tears only stream down faster. “Sweetheart… tell me you know. Tell me you know we’ll be okay. Tell me you believe that.”

Oikawa lets out a sob, still refusing to open his eyes, and raises his head to press into Iwaizumi’s shoulder. “Iwa… Iwa-Iwa-Iwa,” he says his name, again and again and again, sobs racking his body, shoulders trembling. “I’m so scared.”

“I know, Tooru, I know you are. But we’ve gotten through everything, haven’t we? We’ll be alright, darling,” he replies, hands enveloping around Oikawa’s body and pulling him close to him, so much so that they are almost sitting-snuggling. Oikawa sniffles softly in his shoulder.

“Tooru?” Iwaizumi questions, and the man only lets out a soft exhale against his clothed shoulder.

“Why are we still clothed?” he asks, and the question catches Iwaizumi so off guard, that he cannot help but chuckle.

“Do you want to…”

“Oh, gods, _yes_ ,” Oikawa replies simply, raising his head from Iwaizumi’s shoulder to press a long, hard kiss to his open mouth.

It’s been months. Months of longing, for closeness, for comfort, and when it finally boils over, they tear at each other like ravenous hounds. Well, as ravenous as Oikawa’s injuries allow them to be. Their shirts go first, and then Iwaizumi’s jeans and boxers too, until they can finally feel the comfort of each other’s skin against their skin, sweaty brows pressing together, Oikawa’s legs entwining around Iwaizumi’s torso. Iwaizumi is still gentle, despite his desperation. His hands maintain their soft touches on Oikawa’s legs, his thighs, his back; even when his wet fingers trail down his spine to press gently at his opening, they are soft and patient and _knowing._ Because it may have been months, but they still _know_ each other’s bodies – better than the back of their own hands, even. Iwaizumi takes care while taking him apart, licks the tears that still run down from his eyes, and then kisses him, letting him taste the salt on his tongue.

And together they find a way to fill the silence again. With their moans, the way they enjoy each other’s company, each other’s bodies. With their cries of each other’s names, the way it feels on their tongue, the simple pleasure of uttering a lover’s name. With their fears, the way they confess them so easily when dissolved in each other’s bodies. With their insecurities, the way they flow so simply and so naturally when they are high off of each other’s pleasures. And with the declarations of their love, the way they murmur _‘I love you’_ s against heaving chests, trembling lips, panting mouths, and wet cheeks. It’s exhausting – it takes all of them and it breaks all of them – but it builds them back even stronger. So that when they wake up later, bodies heavy and sated and pleased, every bruise hurts less and every blotch of red on Oikawa’s skin is a memory – not of pain, but of pleasure.

And Iwaizumi – the fucking nerd – he can’t help but see volleyball metaphors even in this. Because if Oikawa’s accident was like the heavy, ominous silence after a match lost, this – _this game_ they play with their bodies is like the silence after a match won. The silence where their bodies have begun to ache terribly, but their spirits are renewed, and sated, and content. The silence where they can shed their tears freely - not out of grief, but out of hope. Because when they're together, they always have hope that they can keep standing on the court another day.

And come what may, _that_... is enough. 

**Author's Note:**

> Kudos and comments make my day, so if you enjoyed, kindly let me know :)


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